13
Olivia entered the station to find Dillon seated at the desk directly in front of Maud’s. He was heads down, so intent on his work the rest of the world might as well just float away. The desk was blanketed with forms and handwritten pages and smudged slips of paper. The sight took her straight back. The young kid who escaped from his awful home long before she fashioned her own getaway. So involved in whatever challenge he set for himself, the young Dillon did not even pay attention to the school’s bullies. A handsome kid in hand-me-down clothes, clean because his grandmother insisted on doing their laundry. Nor did he care. He remained focused on doing well, honing his gifts, finding identity in whatever job was cast his way. Just like now.
Olivia spoke a few words, just to reconnect and make sure he was okay. But she doubted he was fully aware of her standing there. Then she went back outside and settled her gear in the trunk. The rain had diminished to a mist only slightly finer than fog. A gentle breeze blew salt-laden spray. She zipped up her rain gear and set off walking.
Miramar’s main street was less crowded than on the afternoon of her arrival. The parking areas were much less full, and fewer families walked aimlessly along the sidewalks. But tattered Christmas decorations still dangled from wires and poles and storefronts. Most streetlights remained off, and few of the shopfront windows were illuminated.
In a way, she shared Dillon’s attitude. Working on the photographs had left her shielded from the gray afternoon. As she descended Ocean Avenue’s gentle slope, Olivia decided she had been wrong to call herself happy. The season was too fractured for such a word. It was only when she stood in front of the camera store and saw her framed portrait of the jail-cell family there in the shop window that a different word came to mind. One that suited her like a tailored suit.
She wascontent.
Olivia could see Gleason dealing with another customer, so she remained where she was, standing in the rainswept shopping street, admiring her work. Rain streaking the glass made by the family come alive, especially the children. It was good work. She had done this. Despite everything the world had thrown at her. The longer she stood there, the more certain she became that this was, without doubt, a true Christmas gift. One that would help her through the seasons yet to come.
Gleason greeted her with a look that took Olivia straight back. The rumpled overweight bear of a man with a scowl to match. “I suppose you’ll be wanting your money.”
For a long moment she had no idea what he was talking about. Then, “The photograph in your window. You sold it.”
“Not the print. That’s mine. But two magazines have bought rights to publish it. I had to push like crazy. Those editors wouldn’t know art if it bit them.”
She realized Gleason was angling for a commission. The fact that he wouldn’t come straight out was oddly touching. “I’ve never had an agent before. I’d be honored if you’d work with me.”
The older man seemed momentarily at a loss. Then, “How did you find jobs in LA?”
“I became known to some producers and directors. They booked me on a pretty regular basis. Then a couple of older stars started calling me for casual-style PR shots. Not many. But some.”
“And you grew up in the process.” He banged open the old-fashioned cash register, passed over a check. “I’ve sold your photo toCalifornia Styles.Mother Jonesis using it for their next cover. Your work bumped the governor to next month.”
The check was for two and a half thousand dollars. Olivia breathed around the enormity of what she held. “Gleason . . .”
“The Santa Cruz paper wants it but they haven’t said how much. I haven’t heard back from LA yet. I’ve been told they take forever.”
“You’ve done this in aday.”
He pretended at unconcern, but Olivia could see he was very proud. “Just so happened both journals are giving the storms a lot of coverage.”
“This is enormous.” She looked up. “Is this minus your commission?”
“Glad you asked. And the answer is no, since we haven’t reached an agreement. Ten percent sound about right?”
“Absolutely.” She tried to hand it back.
“No, no, I’ll just take it out of whatever else comes in.”
She pocketed the check. The paper felt warm as a live coal to her fingers. “Speaking of which, I have the results of a new shoot. I need some prints.”
He was already moving. He locked the front door, put the sign in place telling customers to ring the bell, then said, “Come on around back.”
* * *
Entering Gleason’s secret domain took Olivia straight back. She had been borderline terrified the first time this gruff old man had invited her. The back room was huge, far larger than the shop itself. She walked slowly down the central aisle, surrounded by shelves reaching up to the ceiling, many of them glass fronted, all of them carefully dusted and polished. They held a treasure trove of camera history. The apparatus dated back to photography’s earliest days, when several mules were required to carry the bulky cameras and their glass plates.
Originally this room had been sectioned into four. But the development machines that had once created a lab-like atmosphere were all replaced now by computer-driven efficiency. The walls had been torn out, and this mini-museum to California’s photographic history was created. Olivia paused by the line of enlargers and development tanks and drying cabinets, remembering what it was like to make her very first adult friend.
When she looked up, Gleason showed her a surprisingly gentle smile. “You always were my finest unpaid assistant.”
She was tempted to reply,And look where it brought me. But remained silent.
He eased himself down into a wooden swivel chair dating from the same era as his former darkroom. It creaked in protest as he pulled in close. “Grab a chair.” Olivia had heard those very same words any number of times. They no longer carried the thrill of earlier days, when the young teen was enthralled with her newfound abilities, and heard in Gleason’s invitation a chance to enter the professional ranks. Someday. Perhaps.
